


Samhain

by ladyarcherfan3



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006), Robin Hood (Traditional)
Genre: AU, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Gen, Post-Series, Traditional Robin Hood story elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyarcherfan3/pseuds/ladyarcherfan3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin is found in the heart of Sherwood by someone who recognizes in him a beginning of an end.</p>
<p>Post series, AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Samhain

**Intro:**   
  
I found him on the night before Samhain, or as the Christians call it, All Hallows Eve. The Goddess must have been guiding my steps; for I walked paths I would have never tread alone, and thus came to him. I felt compelled to walk further and further that night, going until the light had faded from the sky. I could feel that something was amiss, for the stars were far more persistent in their shining than usual and the trees and earth seemed to whisper back and forth with each other. It was not an urgent whisper of immediate things, but rather of the beginning. The beginning of an end.   
  
What he was doing by himself in the middle of the forest, I could not say, nor did I care. Why he was alone was not my concern either. Perhaps, he felt the breath of the Underworld on his skin, begged some solitude from his constant companions, and like a defeated wolf, went off to find his grave with some dignity of sorts. But such a fate was not his, for the Goddess needed him for her purposes.   


***  


He was sitting in the middle of a small meadow, one of the rare few in that far part of the forest. I could see he was hunched in pain and shivering. I left the trees and crossed the grass to him, but he did not notice me until I was less than a rod away. Then, training and instinct warred with pain and sickness as he looked up and attempted to stand, lifting his bow.   
  
I stopped, studying him. A man not even to his thirtieth year, sick and weak, but showing strength underneath it, dressed in a worn green hooded tunic, struggled to stand before me. The weight of death hung like a dark mantle on his head and shoulders, not only his death, but the deaths of those he had wrought or witnessed.   
  
I looked into his eyes, and my heart stopped for a beat. In his blue eyes that held a hint of the forest’s color, I saw the touch of the Goddess. It was so faint, he probably didn’t even know it himself, and very few others would have noticed it, but I was granted that knowledge. Here was the reason I had walked so far and long in the night.   
  
We had studied each other for a heartbeat, and he lowered his bow quickly, realizing I was a woman. He gave a small smile and said, “Well met. What is a fine lady like yourself doing in the forest this time of night?” His voice, while retaining the music that others had once found entrancing and inspiring, was now husky with pain.   
  
“I might ask the same of you, Lord,” I replied, for I recognized earthly nobility in him as well. “How are you called?”  
  
A pained smile flickered across his lips, but no light shone from his eyes. “I am Robin Hood . . . or what’s left of him,” he added in a whisper.   
  
The last remark did not escape me, but I did not press it. I knew his fate. “Robin of the Wood.” I said, for he was known by that name to me and mine.  
  
He shrugged. “I’ve been called that, too. And what’s your name?”   
  
“Greta,” I said, the word burning my tongue. Why, to have been born with my gifts and beliefs, did I have to be named in a Germanic tongue that mutilated another Eastern word?   
  
“Greta,” he whispered. “Means ‘pearl’, doesn’t it?” A shudder racked his body, and he wavered.   
  
“Yes,” I replied, “and you are sick and weary. What are you doing out here?”   
  
A flash of guilt showed in his eyes for less than a heartbeat, and I knew that he realized his death was near. “I was traveling and the night caught up with me.”   
  
“Where are you loyal friends? Everyone who knows of Robin Hood knows of his gang.”   
  
Again I saw the guilt in his eyes, mingled with sorrow. “I asked for a few days alone to think, and to visit the Abbess of Kirklees.”   
  
My eyebrow shot up in interest. This abbess was known to me, for her title was more of a formality that a truth.   
  
He continued, misinterpreting my movement, “She’s a distant cousin of mine, and well versed in the healing arts.” Irony laced his voice as he said this; his gaze turned inward, and he gave a sad smile.   
  
“Yes,” I agreed, drawing his attention back to me. “She is that.” I took a deep breath of the cool night air and glanced at the stars; they still shone with a strange intensity. “Well, where ever you planned to go, it does not look like you will get there tonight. I can take you somewhere close that will offer shelter so you can rest until morning. I can also take you to Kirklees, by fast routes that you may not know.”   
  
Robin stared at me in astonishment. If he had any desires to politely put aside my help for pride’s sake if naught else, his weariness prevented him. His shoulders sagged and his breath struggled in and out of his chest. “Thank you,” he finally managed.   
  
I stepped to his side, placed a hand on his shoulder, and guided him back into the forest. There was a small, secluded grove not far away where the trees made a good wall against the wind; the branches formed an arching roof decorated with stars. As he stepped through the trees and trod the long, soft grass inside the circle, Robin seemed to forget his pain as he stared about.   
  
The stars and moon cast a silver blue light down, but the shadows were tinged with green from the leaves. A soft sound of breathing moved through the grove, as the night breeze stirred the trees in their sleep. It was a small space, but it seemed much larger, ever expanding into the night.   
  
“I never knew this was here, all the years I lived and traveled in the forest . . .” he whispered.   
  
“Come, Robin, can you really think a forest such as Sherwood would ever reveal its secrets all at once to a man?”   
  
“Would it to a woman, then?” he asked, brow raised, with a hint of sly interest in his voice, and a half smile on his lips.  
  
“Rhetorical.  Man as in mankind,” I smoothly replied to deflect his question. There was no need to take undue risks, not as of yet.   
  
He gave a half grin, one that said he was sharing a secret with me, and said, “Of course.”   
  
The smile lifted the pall of death from him for a moment, and I saw what he had been to so many people, instead of a tool for the Goddess. The cheeky leader, the passionate rebel, the bold outlaw: I saw it all in through that smile which finally lit his eyes. For a brief moment, looking at him, I regretted my vow to the Goddess to stay virgin and given to no man, but it passed swiftly. His time was coming fast to a close, and my vow was far longer lasting than any man’s life.   
  
The light faded from his eyes once again, and I pulled my thoughts to the present. “You will be able to rest here. But I do not have anything to make a fire with; I did not plan on staying out this late.”   
  
“Nor did I,” he admitted. He pulled his hood over his head and wrapped his cloak tighter. “I should be fine, if the wind does not get stronger.”   
  
“It won’t.”   
  
Robin looked at me as if he was going to say something else, but decided against it. He settled himself near the base of a tree, were the ground was just slightly hollowed out between two gigantic roots. The loam was soft, and the grass long, so I knew he would be comfortable there. I lay down not far away, curled up under my gray cloak.   
  
Not much time had passed before Robin fell asleep. I, however, stayed awake, just watching him and thinking.   
  
I had heard a lot of this Robin Hood, though it was as if from a distance, muffled. Living only in the forest without the benefit of regular visits had a tendency to do this to any news. Most of my visitors were uninterested in the petty power plays of nobility, to begin with; they, like I, had longer lasting interests. Yet, when news of Robin of the Wood began to trickle to me, I took no more interest in it than I would have given any other political rebel or outlaw. I could have cared less at the time, but as I lay under the trees that night, I began to look back over my memories about Robin Hood.   
  
In the first years that the news first filtered into the forest, all I recall is that Robin had outlawed himself and fought the tyranny of the Sheriff, subtly sometimes, other times more openly. There was word of his outlaw gang, but I never knew much about them. Eventually, there came word that the King’s life was in danger, and that Robin sought to prevent the Sheriff in his plot. Then, word stopped. Robin had disappeared, leaving the forest in a state of shock.   
  
That was the first time that I began to wonder if there was more to this outlaw than cunning games to help the poor. When he finally returned, sorrowful at the loss of his beloved, the forest picked up on his mood. It was a terrible time, but time heals all wounds. And Robin, I guess, found revenge in some way. The Sheriff had been killed; rumor has it the deed was done by his own captain, Guy of Gisborne. Then Robin challenged and killed Gisborne, leaving the battle wounded himself. Again, the forest reflected his mood of dark triumph, but the beginning of winter had set in.   
  
Robin Hood was the Summer Lord of the Forest. The summer had come and gone, and winter was fast approaching. He could no longer reign, but his legacy could not be forgotten.   
  
I fumed, then. I had not been born on this island; I was a child of Erin, and a servant to the Goddess, who once held sway over all of Erin and Britain alike. Her guise had changed with the ages in the past, and she had done so once again. Though the people of Britain claimed they were Christians, the very life’s blood of the land was rooted far deeper into an older mystery that could never be forgotten.   
  
Then, how could the people of Britain have forgotten the lore of the Summer Lord? Was the pull of the new religion so great that the Goddess was ignored? How could Robin not see that he was the sacrificial lord of the land, who could restore as much in death as he had in life? Why could he not accept the truth?   
  
As I struggled with the turmoil of my thoughts, the wind picked up, despite my words to Robin. It had sly, cold, searching fingers that soon had me shivering occasionally.  Robin, weak and cold as it was, was soon shaking from the chill. I watched as he curled tighter, but suddenly gasped in pain and curled no more.  Pain deepened the lines already etched in his face.   
  
The wind blew a particularly cold blast through my cloak, so I stood and went over to Robin and lay by him the hollow, facing him but not touching him. He continued to shiver, yet sweat stood out on his forehead. Even in sleep he could find no real rest or peace; pain and sorrow was forever etched on his face, and I couldn’t help but be moved with pity for him. I had absolute faith in the Goddess, but I wondered if it was entirely fair to treat such a man in the way that he had been.   
  
Robin whispered in his sleep, “Marian . . . oh, Marian, why?”  
  
I knew from the whispers of news that Marian was his true love, who had died in some distant land. They said she had died saving the King, and Robin arrived just moments too late to save her. No wonder he was tormented in his dreams.   
  
He settled after a few moments, but continued to shiver violently. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his forehead and landed on his eyelid. I carefully reached out and wiped it off. He gave a small sigh, sadness, weariness and loneliness mingling in that single release of breath.  
  
Moved with an emotion I had never felt before, I reached out and gathered the sleeping man to myself. Later I told myself it was out of mothering instinct to comfort him, but at the time, I know it was out of an instantaneous and meaningless attraction; it made no sense, it would come to nothing, but it was undeniable. I cradled his head in my arms, gently stroking his head or back every so often. He seemed to settle from his nightmares, and his shivering slowed greatly; small spasms shook his muscles every so often, and I began to suspect it was from pain and not cold.   
  
The sound of his breathing was almost painful; the air seemed to stick and rattle in his lungs, telling me that some illness had settled there; I ached to hear him. The wind hissed cold through the trees again, and Robin shivered. I took my cloak and tried to wrap it around both of us, shifting closer to him in the process. As I moved about, I brushed his belly with my arm, and he gasped in pain. I recalled the story that he had been wounded in his last fight; I never heard where the blow had landed.   
  
I gently pulled his shirt and tunic up to expose his belly, and saw what had been hurting him. The slash was nearly six inches long, and though old, was still red and inflamed, as if it were still infected and sore. Robin shifted slightly, and I looked up to see his bemused but very awake eyes.   
  
I could not stop the blush that crept up my cheeks, but I ignored it anyway.   
  
“I accidently brushed your wound when I was trying to cover you with my cloak, and I was checking it.”   
  
Another crooked smile graced his face. “I wasn’t wondering about that – I wanted to know when you ended up here.”   
  
“You were cold and shivering, so I thought to share body heat.”   
  
The grin faded from his face, and he murmured, “I am always cold lately, but it is not the weather’s fault.”   
  
The cloak of death hung over him again, and a small part of me wanted to push it away, but the greater and wiser part kept me in check. I reminded myself that the Goddess had decreed his fate, and I was but a tool as he was to her will. Instead, I allowed myself to stroke his hair and say, “Go back to sleep; I will keep the wind’s chill from you.”   
  
“You’re helping with the other chill, too,” he whispered as he closed his eyes.  
  
My heart gave a painful lurch, but I did and said nothing.   
  
He slept quietly for a time, but the nightmares came back to haunt him again. He did not speak this time, but he murmured incoherently, moaned and shuddered. I continued to hold him, trying to still his quaking with soothing touches, stroking his hair, cheeks, and rubbing his shoulders. I hardly trusted myself to think, fearing that rational thoughts would show that I was breaking my vow. So, I simply reacted, comforting him and gaining a strange sort of comfort from him in return.   
  
A dream forced him awake with a small cry, and I whispered, my lips almost brushing his hair, “Shh, mo chroi,” speaking the language of my childhood to him.   
  
He came fully awake, and though he did not know the language, he sensed the meaning in them. “Don’t Greta,” he said. Pain thickened his voice, but he was vehement.   
  
I pulled back from him quickly, another blush coloring my cheeks. “Sorry. Don't what?”  
  
He shook his head firmly but gently, “Don’t give me your heart; I can’t give mine in return. Mine is buried in the Holy Land.”   
  
“I am sorry,” I said, both to myself and to him. “I did not really mean anything by it, it just slipped out.”   
  
Robin nodded, and more shudders knotted his muscles. “Could you stay close, just for the warmth?” His blue eyes pleaded for understanding. He wanted and needed comfort, but feared that he could offer none in return.   
  
I slid closer again, one arm going to pillow his head, the other wrapping around his shoulder. The feelings and gestures were foreign to me, yet still so natural I could not deny them. “For the warmth,” I agreed.   
  
We both fell asleep.

***

The next day dawned fresh and chill. I awoke from a dream that had reminded me of my vow, to see Robin watching me. The pity in those blue eyes almost drove me over the edge again.   
  
“What?” I asked softly.  
  
“You were troubled in your sleep.”   
  
I retorted, “No more than you. And you should have been sleeping.”   
  
“Does it really matter?” he asked, and I wondered if he knew his fate, but he continued, “It was nearly dawn. You were just frowning a lot, and shaking you head a bit.”  
  
“Call it an argument with my wiser self,” I replied, sitting up.  
  
“For what?” He struggled to rise, and I helped him.   
  
“For this,” I said as my hand lingered on his arm. “You told me not to give you my heart; isn’t it worse to feel for you, and not give my heart? Knowing -” I stopped myself. It was not up to me to reveal the Goddess’s plans to him.   
  
Robin looked at me with understanding and compassion in his eyes. “Knowing that it will end before it begins?” he whispered. “Yes, perhaps. But it is hard to deny the heart, Greta. I know.”   
  
Annoyance at myself caused me to snarl, “But I don’t think it is my heart! It is my mind and body reacting without reason.”   
  
“Perhaps there is reason, but you cannot see it. Like our chance meeting.”   
  
I wanted to tell him it was not chance that brought me to him, and to tell him that I should not be feeling the way I did towards him. I could not bring myself to speak. I sat silently and listened to the soft rustling of Robin’s breath in his sickened lungs.   
  
“Shall we go to Kirklees?” he asked softly.   
  
I nodded, stood, and helped him up. He put his arm around my shoulder and leaned on me. I could feel his strength failing, and knew it would not be long until the Goddess would take him for her purpose.   
  
_And take him from me_ , a voice whispered, but I quashed it.   
  
I led him on forest paths that he had never trod in his time as an outlaw. That was not surprising, as I knew many secret paths through every forest and valley in the area. Those that belonged to the Goddess had to be careful, for there were those that belonged to the new religion that took great pleasure in tormenting those that ran counter to their ideals.   
  
As we walked, Robin talked to me of small things, telling me happy stories from his youth, of amusing adventures with his gang. His voice started strong and light, but as time passed, it grew weak, and he began to cough. After a violet fit, he pulled his hand away from his mouth, and it was stained with blood. He tried to hide it, but it was no use.   
  
I felt my brows pucker in worry and could not stop them. “Robin . . .” He looked up at me, a command not to worry about him in his eyes, and I finished, “I can talk for a while.”   
  
He nodded. We continued, and I told him of my childhood in Erin, omitting anything that dealt with the Goddess and my Sight. I told him ballads and tales from the mist shrouded hills of my homeland, and of silly childhood dangers involving excited wolfhound pups. He was soon smiling again, but laughed only occasionally; it hurt his lungs too much. Time passed easily, and before the sun had dropped from its zenith, we arrived at Kirklees.   
  
We entered a small door in the wall of the abbey that few would know of. Robin raised his eyebrows in surprise as I led him through the small portal, but he made no comment. By the way of back stairs and little used halls, I brought him to the chamber of the Abbess.   
  
Robin leaned against a wall while I went to the door and knocked softly. “Abbess?” I called softly, and added a phrase in the Gael’s tongue. I felt Robin straighten with interest as I spoke; apparently he had no idea of his distant cousin’s true nature, which was good.   
  
The door opened, and framed the Abbess of Kirklees, a woman past her middle years, but still retaining grace and strength. Now that I had seen Robin, I could see the blood shared between them, however distantly. They both had a lissome build and grace, the same cheekbones, and a similar shade of hair.   
  
I shook away my thoughts and said, “Abbess, this is Robin of the Wood . . .”   
  
Her eyes turned to Robin. His posture of leaning against the wall looked causal and arrogant, but it was simply a mask to hide the pain.   
  
“Robin of Locksley, you seem to have many names these days,” she greeted him. “My dear cousin who has sent so many refugees to me in times of need . . . I have not seen you since that short visit on your way to the Holy Land. Did you forget me in your joy to come home, and then in the excitement of becoming an outlaw?” Her tone was light and friendly, but I saw the flicker of the Sight come into her eyes. She knew, then, that Robin was also the Summer Lord.   
  
“It was something like that,” Robin grinned.   
  
“So you have finally decided to visit me, or is there something else you wish?”   
  
Robin grimaced. “I am in need of help, cousin. I know you are a skilled healer, and I am ill . . .”   
  
A harsh cough tore from his chest as he spoke, and his knees gave way. I sprang to his side and caught him as he slid down the wall. I was shocked to realize how long he had stood against the pain, at how resilient he was, even now. He gripped my arm in thanks, but forced himself to stand again. The Abbess was at his other side, her brow frowning as she examined him.   
  
“My dear cousin, do not reject help once it comes to you,” she said referring to me. “Especially since you refuse to seek it yourself until it almost doesn’t matter!” She turned to me, saying, “Greta, bring him to the room down the hall, and then come back here. Robin, I will be with you once I have a chance to gather my things.”   
  
Robin nodded, wiping flecks of blood off his lips. “Thank you,” he said to the Abbess. “I am sorry I came so late.”   
  
“It was your choice, cousin; you could have come sooner, or not come at all.”   
  
The blood ran from his face as she spoke. Memories danced dark in his eyes, and I felt a flicker of anger at his cousin for causing him pain, even if I did not know the cause. Then, the Abbess turned to her room, and I helped Robin walk down the hall.   
  
Once in the small room, I helped him out of his cloak, tunic, and boots, and covered him once he was in the bed. I tried not to think, forcing my thoughts only to my vow, and the vision the Goddess had shown me, the vision that had driven me to meet Robin in that meadow. I could hardly think of anything else, for fear that it would show on my face and betray the Goddess to him before the right time.   
  
Robin must have sensed something was amiss, for he caught my hand as I made to leave.   
  
“Greta, do not blame yourself,” he said softly. I know he was thinking of our conversation that dawn, but it comforted me in that moment of strife with my vow.   
  
“I will try not to, Robin,” I replied, and left.   
  
As soon as I entered the Abbess’ cell she said, “You know he is the Summer Lord, and his time is come?”   
  
I nodded. “The Goddess brought me to him, when he was looking for his grave. Even his friends don’t know that he is here.”   
  
“As the Summer Lord, he cannot die of illness, and his blood must be given back,” she reminded me.   
  
Pain tore through my heart as I thought about his death. “Sibyl,” I pleaded with her, “he cannot go to the Goddess without knowing the reason! He has not yet seen the truth of his fate. And how can you collect his blood without slitting his throat like an animal at slaughter?”   
  
As I spoke, my voice rose with my passion, and I was nearly shouting when I stopped.  
  
Sibyl grabbed my shoulder, giving me a sharp shake. “Greta, silence yourself and think! I will not murder my own cousin, but he is near death. Even if he was not the Summer Lord at the end of his time, I could not save him now. He is hanging on only by his famous stubbornness! He _will_ see the truth, very soon, I have Seen it!”   
  
“But the blood, Sibyl . . .”  
  
“It is a common practice to bleed an ill man to take away the sick blood.”  
  
I frowned at this, for I knew that it was a barbaric practice and it made no sense. “How will his sick blood bring about any good?”   
  
“I will not kill my cousin, I said,” she replied quietly, “but the Goddess will have her will. It shall pass as it will.”   
  
“Give him some more time! Sibyl, perhaps he will pull through, maybe this isn’t the Summer Lord’s time yet,” I began, emotions tangling and blocking my Sight and my vow.  
  
She slapped me.   
  
“How dare you question this, Greta! It was the Goddess that led you to him, for this end! You know in your heart of hearts that he is at the end of his time, and this is to be his end!” She softened as I stared at her, tears of pain and sorrow in my eyes. “You know what day is today?”  
  
I nodded and swallowed. “Samhain.”   
  
She nodded. “And this year it coincides with the Christian holiday of All Saints’ Day. Rebirth through death. As it has always been, and it is fitting.”   
  
I nodded, steadying myself.   
  
“Good. Help me with these things.” She gave me a large, flat bowl, and a few rolls of bandages. She carried a small knife, the blade fine and very sharp.   
  
As we entered Robin’s room, he smiled slightly to see me, but he could not hide the fear in his eyes at the instruments we carried.   
  
“So, this is my cure?” he asked wryly.   
  
Sibyl smiled back at him, a humorous half grin that mirrored his. “You did not leave me very many options, dear boy.”   
  
“Boy?” he joked back. “I’m almost as old as you!”  
  
“Far from it, in age, wisdom and intelligence," she replied, and Robin grinned. She continued, "Now, Robin I am going to need you arm. Greta, you can hold the bowl here,” she gestured, with a comforting smile on her face.   
  
“Bleeding? That’s a bit barbaric even for you! I doubt Djaq would approve.” Robin teased. I heard the tremor in his voice. He knew the danger and chances for a healing from the procedure, even if he didn’t know the full truth of it.  
  
His cousin smiled back. “Your Saracen physician is not here Robin, which is probably why you are in the state you are.”   
  
“There are some things even she couldn’t have healed . . .” he said, his eyes going distant.   
  
Sibyl allowed him his moment, and then gently took his arm, pulling back his shirt sleeve to bare him past the elbow. I stared at his arm, willing the flaccid muscles to become robust again, begging the sluggish blood to run hot and fiery again, so my Sight would be proved wrong, and so my heart could be comforted.   
  
But it was not to be.   
  
Sibyl tightened a strap around Robin’s arm to make the veins stand out, and then lifted the knife carefully. As the blade lowered, I looked away, only to look straight into Robin’s eyes.   
  
He watched me for less than a heartbeat, glanced at the knife, and then back at me. Suddenly, in those blue eyes the color of the sky above the trees with a hint of summer leaves, I saw realization. The Goddess granted him momentary Sight of his fate, and he saw what must happen.   
  
I saw the action in his eyes before it happened, and then I saw it again with my own eyes as it came to pass.   
  
Just as the knife cut into his arm, Robin’s arm twitched slightly, as if from a shiver. The slight movement drove the fine blade deeper than it was meant to go, and the blood rushed out from a major vein. He gave a small sigh of pain as it happened, but nothing else. I refused to watch the flow of his life dripping into the bowl, and kept my eyes on his face. He turned his eyes to me, still lit with the Goddess’ knowledge, and smiled.   
  
My heart was torn in two. It was ripped from my own doubt in the Goddess, and for my unreasonable love for this Summer Lord, who was passing away before my eyes. And yet, after it all, he still smiled at me.   
  
The bowl was half full before Sibyl tightened the tourniquet around Robin’s arm, and wrapped a bandage around the wound. I knew the tourniquet was too loose to do much good, and it was too late to make a difference, as well.   
  
“Try to rest, Robin,” she suggested.   
  
He gave a soft laugh. “I can hardly do aught else, cousin.” His breathing was labored, and there was no color left in his face.   
  
“Greta, come with me please,” she said, bringing me back out of Robin’s eyes.   
  
He smiled at me again as I left.   
  
In her room, she cleaned the knife, and instructed me to set the bowl on her table. I placed it down carefully, and then quickly backed away. It was beginning to frighten me that the life blood of the Summer Lord was so close to me, and that I had held it for a time.   
  
I looked up to see Sibyl’s eyes distant as the Goddess granted her Sight of something. “His friends will come before the end, and the end will come with the death of the day,” she said softly. “The blood will be returned then, and the reign of the Summer Lord will be over. The year will end, the Lord will die, but it will be born anew in the spring, and in the people themselves.”   
  
She blinked and looked at me. “You should go sit with him for as long as possible,” she said gently; I suspect my misled heart was in my eyes. “I will fetch you when you need to go to the forest.”   
  
I nodded, and hurried from the room, her prophetic words ringing in my head, and comforting my heart to some degree.   
  
Robin was as we had left him, too weak to move, and in harmony with his fate. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling to soft, fluttering breaths. I felt the ache of love and loss, but knew that I had to accept what must happen with grace, as Robin had done.  
  
I sat on the edge of the bed gently, but he awoke and opened his eyes. He reached for my hand, and I let him take it, surprised.   
  
“Hardly the death most people would see for the great Robin Hood, don’t you think?” he whispered.   
  
“I am sorry,” I began, but he stopped me with a gentle squeeze of his hand on mine.   
  
“Don’t be. I understand and see now. It is not your fault. None of this was, or is, your fault.” He looked out the narrow window on the wall across from the bed. “Do you think Much, John and Allan can make it here in time?” His weak voice held a sad wistfulness to it.   
  
“The Abbess seems to think so,” I whispered back. I took his hand in both of mine and caressed it. “You will not be alone when the day turns to night.” He glanced at me with a smile in his eyes, but I shook my head. “I will be in the forest, Lord.”   
  
Sadness ran across his face and he said, “I’m sorry. I smiled because when the night comes I will not be alone in it either. Marian will be there, waiting, to be my light in the dark.”   
  
Tears started in my eyes, but they did not fall. I had know the truth long before this moment, had been told it, and now I was finally accepting it. There is a certain sad peace in that.   
  
We did not talk the rest of the afternoon, but simply sat and took comfort, once again, from each other’s presence. I watched as the sun slowly descended in the sky, and waited for the Abbess Sibyl to fetch me.  
  
Robin was whiter than any living man I had seen by the time Sibyl came for me. As I stood to go to the door, Robin stopped me with the faintest pressure on my hand. I leaned close to hear his soft words.   
  
“Thank you for being my guide, Greta.”   
  
“You were my guide, too, Robin, back to the truth.”  
  
With those words, I left him, and went into the forest with the Summer Lord’s blood.   
  
As I stood under the trees, the Goddess granted me Sight, and I could see the happenings in the small room where a legend lay dying. Three riders galloped to the abbey gate, and then ran to their leader. Grief rocked them, and made them silent in shock. Robin spoke to them, reassuring them, but never saying a word about the Goddess. It was not for them to know.   
  
I saw them give him his bow, and fit an arrow to the string. The last rays of the sun struck Robin in the eyes as he sat up slowly in the bed and drew the bow with a shaking arm. The day faded even further. Finally, he let the arrow fly through the narrow window.   
  
It soared through the air, racing with the sun to be the first to the earth. The arrow tip sank into turf just as the light died and night came. The arrow shivered to a stop as Robin’s heart and breath stilled, and he died.   
  
I saw all this, and as the Summer Lord passed, I picked up the bowl. Tears of bittersweet sorrow ran down my face as I gave the blood to the earth, the air, the water, and the fire. The love I could never have was gone, my faith in the Goddess had been shaken, and I was still here. I was still strong.   
  
That is what the passing of the Summer Lord would do to the rest of Britain. Even as the news of Robin Hood’s death would spread like summer fires to every edge of the land, people would be crippled with grief. Yet, when the initial shock of the grief wore off, the people would be left with strength greater than imagined.   
  
This is what the death and rebirth of the Summer Lord meant.  
  
Long live Robin Hood.  
  
Long live the Summer Lord: dead, and now reborn in all of Britain.   
  
_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> This story was an attempt to blend the BBC RH verse with themes and images from the more traditional versions of Robin Hood and some Celtic mythology imagery. Originally posted on ff.net


End file.
